


Tentative and Inarticulate Confessions

by whirlingdervish



Series: Proximity [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 18:10:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12965388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlingdervish/pseuds/whirlingdervish
Summary: Probably riddled with errors and not as polished as I'd like, so I might come back and fix it later.Characters don't belong to me.No Beta, not brit-picked





	Tentative and Inarticulate Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Probably riddled with errors and not as polished as I'd like, so I might come back and fix it later.
> 
> Characters don't belong to me.
> 
> No Beta, not brit-picked

What had started with Sherlock’s demanding text for milk had somehow turned into a weekly visit, and then biweekly. Always, the question of John’s moving back in hung unanswered in the air.  Sherlock seemed pleased by their visits and Rosie was a welcome distraction with her cherubic laughter and occasional tantrum there wasn’t time to delve too deeply into the murky uncharted waters of their tentatively revived friendship.

When Mary’s final DVD arrives in the mail, John calls Sherlock over to watch it as it was addressed to both of them. Sherlock arrives quicker than John expects, but keeps aloof- doesn’t sit by down next to John when invited, doesn’t remove his coat, just kind of hovers on the periphery as though somehow intruding on an intimate moment, even though Mary was speaking directly to the both of them. As soon as the message ends, John pauses the DVD and turns to Sherlock to ask him what he made of it, but Sherlock is already stalking toward the door with a swirl of his Belstaff coat.

Texts go ignored.

Calls go unanswered.

John stops by after work before picking Rosie up from the nursery. He still hasn’t had a new key made and so is at the mercy of Mrs. Hudson who says Sherlock isn’t home.

John texted Greg; not a NSY case then. Molly hadn’t seen him at St. Barts.

John stops short of asking Mycroft. Having shared the same harrowing experience sometimes cements friendships, but John still can’t shake the image of Mycroft sacrificing his life so that Sherlock wouldn’t have to choose. It doesn’t feel right to pit them against each other now, somehow.

Mrs. Hudson called on Saturday morning.

“John,” she says by way of greeting, “He’s not well.”

“Not well how?” John asks, already beginning to gather necessities for Rosie’s diaper bag.

“He hasn’t left the flat, hasn’t changed out of his pajamas, and he’s diving me mad with his violin. The same tune over and over. The neighbors are complaining.”

“I’ll be right over,” John says, “Would you mind watching Rosie so I can have a word with him?”

“Of course!”

 

John finds Sherlock standing by the window in his pajamas, violin tucked under his chin, but not playing, just staring out the window at Baker Street below.

“Hello John,” he says without turning around.

“You ok?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says tonelessly as the Stradivarius is gently placed back in the case.  He goes to his black leather chair and flops into it.

“Right,” John says, “We need to talk.”

 

     Sherlock looks wrecked, John thinks guiltily as he watches his friend’s eyebrows lift in concern. Over the last few years he’s become quite adept at deductions himself. The shadows under Sherlock’s eyes indicate that he hasn’t slept much, as per usual. But, his hair is sticking out at all angles. He’s been thrusting his hands into it again, which he only does when he’s very agitated. He can’t keep still, even sitting and waiting for John to speak, his hands are fluttering, pulling at a fraying thread on his robe, Sherlock is buzzing with nervous energy,  but not like he’s been using again, thank God. John thinks Mycroft has secretly bugged the flat again. He shouldn’t have left this conversation so long. He should know by now that Sherlock Holmes left to his own devices for too long makes the man crazy.

 “Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson.”

 Sherlock nods, eyes not reaching Johns. Probably formulating some deductions, maybe even the correct ones.

 “Look, Sherlock,” John begins again, his brow crinkling and his mouth turning downward, “I have something to say and I’d appreciate it if you wait until I’m done before you say anything.”

Sherlock straightens a bit in his chair, his eyebrows gather, but he doesn’t say anything.  John realizes his been holding his breath and releases it with a soft sigh. He looks down at the worn red carpet and chews on the inside of his lip for a moment, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and finally opts to sit down on the edge of his own worn chair across from Sherlock and leans toward him, hands clasped, lips pinched.

Sherlock’s expression is naked apprehension and it’s like punch to John’s solar plexus.

“I … I never managed to apologize properly to you for…” John’s eyes close, “for so many things.”

 Sherlock dutifully remains silent, but his expression falls just slightly, sadness in his eyes. Real? John wonders briefly and hates himself for it.

“You asked me to move back in here, and I said I wasn’t ready… and that’s still true. But I think I need to tell you exactly why I can’t, not right now, maybe not ever.” John thinks he sees Sherlock flinch ever so slightly at his words but it’s too late now, the damn has broken and by God they were going to have this conversation if it killed him.

 John’s mouth opens but the words don’t come. He closes his mouth again and clears his throat, eyes already embarrassingly stinging and it feels like an egg has become lodged in his throat. He can’t look at Sherlock right now, so his eyes clamp onto the red carpet.

 “People call you a freak and a psychopath, and you’re not. You never were, but all along, right beside you was the real monster.”

 “John-”

  John holds his hand up for silence and Sherlock mercifully snaps his mouth shut.

“I know what I am,” John says, “I know what I did to you, and I will live with that for the rest of my life.  I can tell you I am sorry for it- because I am, but I can’t promise you it will never happen again. It should have never happened in the first place.”

 “I provoked you,” Sherlock says with false levity, in his usual way of trying to brush it off.

 “That doesn’t matter,” he snaps, “I assaulted you, Sherlock. I could have killed you. They brought me in for it.”

Sherlock’s face is taut with fierce determination.

“I didn’t press charges.”

“I wish you would have! I wish to God there was a balance I could pay on this debt, but there isn’t.”

 “There is no debt!” Sherlock raises his voice to match John’s. 

John shakes his head and stands, no longer able to keep still. He paces behind his chair. Sherlock is stubbornly silent and the only sounds in the flat are the hush of traffic on Baker Street and the faint clanging of metal pots downstairs where Mrs. Hudson has allowed Rosie free reign.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” John mutters.

“I didn’t offer it,” Sherlock says, “You don’t need forgiveness, John. I manipulated the situation and deliberately provoked you into beating me so that I could get put into that hospital- why should you apologize for doing exactly what you were meant to do?” John scowls at him, arms folded across his chest, but is silent. “You didn’t do anything that I didn’t deserve.”

John feels the breath squeeze out him as he looks, really looks at Sherlock’s face. He is trying so hard to maintain a mask of indifference and control but there is something wild and pleading in his pale eyes. He feels something fracture somewhere behind his ribs.

“No,” John says more stoutly than he feels as he shakes his head. “No. There is nothing you have ever done or ever will do that could justify that. This is on me, Sherlock. On me. “

John blinks rapidly and looks around the room, wishing that Mary could tell him what to do now. She picked a fine time to disappear. John’s throat is constricting and he fights down a swallow while simultaneously willing the tears to absorb back into their ducts.

“I’m sick with it, Sherlock,” he confesses hoarsely, eyes on the peeling ceiling, “That I’m capable of inflicting that kind of pain on the person I… on my best friend. Sherlock, I… I can’t risk it happening again. You understand don’t you?” John swallows and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I can defend myself,” Sherlock drawls.

“But you won’t. Not with me, you never do.” John points out, hands on his hips.

They are locked in a staring match now, and John can barely breathe. The lines around Sherlock’s eyes soften ever so slightly, instantly making him look younger, more vulnerable. Sherlock is an expert in Baritsu, he has seen him bring a man twice his size down, and yet he has never once raised a hand to defend himself against John. Not when he came back from the dead, not in the morgue.  John feels the question rise up in his throat unbidden and when it escapes his lips it is nothing more than a raspy whisper.

“Why?”

Sherlock frowns and looks away first; concedes. John thinks he knows why. He hopes he’s right as much as he hopes he isn’t.  He’s never been good with this sort of thing, but neither has Sherlock. Eventually Sherlock clears his throat tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth. John would have had to been blind to not see the rim of red around his eyes.

“Either you already know why and can’t stomach it, or you really don’t and you’re an idiot.”

  _I want to hear you say it._

 John’s stomach clenches at the memory of Culverton Smith’s vicious words from the recording. John had feared a confession of a different kind when he heard the tapes. Why? Why had he been so bloody afraid that Sherlock might admit something else? 

That Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson?

John feels like a fish out of water, flopping impotently on dry land as the realization dawns. His mind is a static silence and he can’t quite harness enough coherent energy t to even form a thought. Time feels like it both standing still and hurtling forward at a break-neck speed.  He is only dimly aware of Sherlock standing, and by the time he can peel himself out of his stupor, Sherlock’s bedroom door has slammed shut.

“Sherlock!”

He’s standing outside the door but it feels like a million miles between them. John leans his forehead against the door and strains to listen, hoping to hear some signs of movement inside. Normally once Sherlock closes a door it’s a fullstop on a conversation, and John has never intruded on the other man’s privacy before. Now, however, he’s desperate enough that he tries the door and finds it locked.

“Sherlock.” He tries in a softer tone.  “Can you come here please?”

 Silence.

 “Sherlock, come back out here, I need to talk to you.” When there was no response John sighs and swears under his breath.   _Isn’t that what couples are supposed to do, talk it out?_   Minutes like eternity pass and John’s mind is still reeling, little scraps of evidence floating to his consciousness- each time he’s noticed and then dismissed something, each aborted hope, each time he’s squashed down his errant thoughts of desire.  The two years he spent grieving- accepting that the gaping hole in his life would never be filled- and then the anger, the blinding rage that propelled him into one bad choice after another until this is where they stood, a door and a universe between them.

 “I’m an idiot. I am an idiot Sherlock,” John said loudly, “Just please, can you…”

The lock turned with a snick.  John’s heart pauses. The door creaks open and Sherlock regards him from the doorway. His verdigris eyes have none of their usual laser focus, instead he just looks weary.   John swallows, throat dry.

 “It’s all been for me hasn’t it?” John asks. Sherlock doesn’t look away, he just nods once. “Christ, Sherlock why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re not gay.”

The softly uttered words pierce John with regret for having always trumpeting that proclamation. He isn’t gay; he doesn’t think so anyway, not in a traditional sense.  It’s not as though he sees a bloke on the street and thing, ‘hey I could go for some of that’.  But there was always something about Sherlock that, when John is honest with himself, he has noticed is a less than objective way. From their first meeting John has craved the other man’s proximity- but it wasn’t anything overtly sexual.  Sure there were moments when maybe his gaze used to linger a little too long on Sherlocks’ lips or fleeting moments when John might wonder…He doesn’t know anymore.

“Can I come in?”

Sherlock moves back out of the doorway and John sits on the edge of Sherlock’s bed.  Sherlock watches him for a moment and then decides to sit next to him, drawing his knees up to his chest. For one so gangly John has always wondered how he can make himself so small.

“I don’t know what label to put on the tin, Sherlock,” John admits, and hears his friend quietly exhale next to him. “I mean, it’s not really something that I… what I mean to say is that I’ve never. “

 John hates that he can’t be as eloquent as this deserves. Sherlock has his head on his knees though and isn’t looking at him, so it gives him some courage and he puts his hand on Sherlock’s back, and feels the muscles under the thread bare gray shirt jump, then relax.

 “I don’t want to keep hurting you,” a whisper is all John can manage.

 John gently rubs Sherlock’s back in what he hopes is a comforting way. Sherlock sniffs and raises his head.

  “I’ve never asked anything from you, I don’t expect anything.” Sherlock says, “I never have.”

 “No, I know.”

  “I just … miss the ways things were.”

  “I do too,” John says.

  “I’m sorry that I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

 “I’m not uncomfortable, Sherlock,” John protests, his hand slipping from Sherlock’s back. “I’m surprised mostly. Married to your work - I thought you were…”

 “What?”

“I don’t know - asexual?”

 “Demi,”

“Pardon?”

  “I am demisexual, John. Though I see where that could be confusing, since I assumed the same for most of life.” Sherlock says, lowering his knees finally and regaining a portion of himself.

“Demisexual,” John ponders aloud and Sherlock watches him with amusement as the realization dawns. John’s eyebrows lift as his mouth turns down and points to himself, “You mean?”

 Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically.  _Obviously._

“You really are an idiot.” He says without sting, nudging John with his shoulder.

 John cannot help the irrational swelling of pride that he, of all people, would spark an interest to the great, impenetrable fortress that was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock distained sentiment and all things associated with distracting sentiment. To have fallen victim to it himself, well, John can now see why it would put Sherlock into a dither make him not himself.

 “But… what about Irene Adler?” John asks, and remembering Sherlock’s previous reaction to her name being brought up instantly regrets the inquiry. He’d almost rather not know.

 Instead of looking annoyed, a smile quirks Sherlock’s lip as John watches feeling perplexed.

“She knows what I like,” Sherlock says simply and looks at John under his eyelashes, a blush creeping onto those impossible cheekbones.

_We’re not a couple- Yes, you are._

 John is stunned into momentary silence before he can stop himself he’s giggling. What the absolute hell is happening? John wonders, but Sherlock chuckles beside him and it is the best he’s felt in years.

 “Oh my god,” John breathes though the abating laughter, “What are we doing?”

 Sherlock looks down, his smile cautiously fading.

“Nothing has to change,” Sherlock says.

 “Yes, I does,” John says adamantly. “It absolutely does. Look, Sherlock. You are the most important person in my life…”

  “Watson,” Sherlock mutters.

 “Well, yes, Rosie, but that’s …” John says, and squeezes his eyes shut. “You are the most important person in my life- and I don’t know if I can be what you need. . . And I sure as hell know that I am much less than you deserve, but-knowing that - If for whatever reason you still want me, I’m…” John flails a bit here, hating how ineloquent he is, hoping desperately that Sherlock will fills in the blanks for him. But, Sherlock is at sea when it comes to all things emotional so John feels he needs to state it out right, “well, yours.”

 Sherlock’s nose scrunches and he looks confused. John finds him adorable when he’s baffled, and where the hell did that thought come from?

 “Yours?” Sherlock echoes.

“Well, yes.” John confirms, “I want to move back in here with you and go back to being… flat mates? Best friends… life partners?” Well, who knows if John Watson is gay or not, but one thing is for certain, that he and Sherlock Holmes are a packaged deal.

 “Life partners?” Sherlock questions.

 “What I mean Sherlock, is that if I move back in, that this is it for me. I won’t leave again. Rosie deserves a family- one she can count on to be there.  You’ve confided a great trust in me today, and I wish I could give you more to go on, but I mean. It’s a process right? … So- ya. This, “he gestures between them, “Whatever it turns out to be, is it . . . if you’re ok with that.”

“Life partners.” Sherlock repeats as though the idea had scratched a record inside his head.

John laughs despite himself, “Oh God, I’ve broken you.”

Sherlock blinks.

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t care what we call it, I just want to come home – to stay.”

More silence.

“That is, if the offer still stands.”

Sherlock clicks back on line with a startled little gasp.

“Of course it does, John.” Sherlock says, looking a little bewildered.  “Of course. This is your home for as long as you want it.”

“Yoohoo!” Mrs Hudson trills from the sitting room, and they can hear Rosie babbling sweetly.

“That’s settled then,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s knee affectionately as he stood, struggling to regain his equilibrium.

As the two exits the bedroom, Rosie toddles quickly toward Sherlock and John does his best to ignore Mrs. Hudson’s knowing and satisfied smile. Sherlock hefts the chubby toddler up into his arms and she presses a sticky kiss to his cheek.  John can’t help but to beam at the pair as he imagines the future, ripe with possibility.


End file.
